#golden petals ❀ ☽

[resident-cake-anon]

happy birthday claude !!

the local carnival coming around on just in time for claude’s birthday wasn’t luck, it was fate <3

taglist! dm for removal or addition :)

@justrandomselfships @deepdivedyke @punkcollar @simonlynch @dmclr

moots add me to your taglists immediately!

rbs greatly appreciated!

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

Balé Bruce taking female readers virginity? It can be headcanon or story. Ty!

Bruce taking your virginity ♡

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A/N: I'm so sorry this took me so long, please forgive me 😭🩷 this is like a weird merge between headcannons and a story lol

《Warnings》: smut (obvi), very sweet and gentle Bruce <3

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

To say he'd be gentle would be an understatement. You'll be treated as absolutely royalty, touches so soft and tender you can barely feel them.

He'd be extremely honored and giddy that you want him to be your first. The fact that you trust him so much despite his reputation makes his heart beat faster and his cock twitch.

It's safe to say he's not a virgin, and boy, does he know what he's doing!!

He'd take you out on a nice date first, most likely a very nice restaurant. Bruce wasn't usually the romantic type when it came to relationships (if you can even call them that) but he loves you, truly loves you, and he wants to make this special for you.

I don't think he'd go the full 9 yards with rose petals and candles, but it's definitely still a very soft and romantic atmosphere.

Bruce would be insistent that you don't have a single sip of alcohol that night. Yes, you've been together for a while, but this is a big step, and he wants to make 10000% sure that this is what you want. No drinks for either of you that night.

So, he'd take you out on a fun night, have you get all dolled up and then drive around with you for a bit, the lights of a Gotham night reflecting in the windows of his very expensive car. Just something to take the edge off.

You're obviously very comfortable around each other, and he's probably seen you naked at one point anyway, but sex is a completely new form of intimacy.

He'd help you undress and place soft kisses on your skin. You'd lay in bed for a while, not completely naked yet, but still very much undressed. Just enjoying each other's company while the flame of lust and desperation slowly grows and grows. Maybe he'd tell you some of his weird or embarrassing sex stories that he (undoubtedly) had at one point just to make you less nervous.

Sex can be messy, clumsy, ungraceful, and sloppy. He wants you to know that there's nothing to be ashamed about and to always voice and concerns or wishes you may have.

He's gently caressing the skin of your arm as you both lay on your sides, facing each other, as you talk about whatever comes to mind. There's a little lamp on in the corner of the room, bathing the room in a soft golden glow.

He can't help but stare in awe as he follows the light reflecting off your features as your lips move. His hand trails lower, settling on stroking your waist, and when he hears you stop talking he searches for any sign of discomfort on your face but is only met with blushed cheeks and your breathing slightly picking up.

Bruce smiles softly and and gently tugs you closer to his chest, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. There are wandering hands, clumsy attempts at keeping your lips connected and the overwhelming urge to just touch. He'd ask you one final time if you're sure about this, that he would stop immediately if you asked him to.

The second you give him the go-ahead, he's almost bursting with excitement. He can't wait to explore this new side of you to figure out what you like and what makes you weak in the knees. His hands explore your body, caressing and teasing your sensitive spots whole his lips are attached to your neck.

He tugs off any remaining garments you had on and makes his way down your stomach, brushing his lips over your soft flesh. And, yes, he will eat you out for your first time (definitely not because he's a munch and has been thinking about this for months) maybe he'd make you come on his tongue, but he doesn't want to overwhelm you so he'll just tease you and rile you up until you're dripping with a fog of pleasure clouding your senses.

He'll gently ease his fingers inside of you one by one, getting you used to the feeling of having something inside of you. He'll switch between holding your hand and circling your clit with his thumb. He watches your face like a hawk for any indication that you're uncomfortable or, god forbid, in any pain.

And if you end up coming around his fingers, that's okay. He didn't really set himself any goals for this, like getting 5 orgasms out of you in 10 minutes or anything like that, he just wants you to feel good and loved.

If you don't come around his fingers, that's okay, too. What happens, happens, what doesn't, doesn't. As long as you're satisfied in the end, he doesn't care.

Expect to get like a thousand kisses and him telling you how much he loves you every second.

Bruce insists on missionary (it's his favorite position, but only with you) because the closeness and intimacy is very important to him during your first time. He will always have a safe word, it'll be just stop most of the time. It's easy to remember because it's the first thing you think of when it gets too much anyway.

Because, let's be honest, you're not gonna remember rhubarb-vanilla crumble or something ridiculous like that.

He's been ignoring his raging hard-on, purely because he just can't take his eyes off you. You look absolutely divine underneath him, your pretty features contorted in bliss. He's already been making mental notes to what really makes you melt. And then the moment finally arrives and he gently pushes himself inside of you, tightly grasping your hand.

Communication is really important to him (not only during sex) so I'm afraid you won't get any kisses until he's 100% sure that you're okay. He needs to hear you loud and clear, whether you want him to slow down, start moving, to angle his hips differently. This is all about you tonight.

But the second he's found a good and steady rhythm and has you mewling with your eyes rolling to the back of your head, he's smashing his lips on yours. Bruce would lay his entire weight on you, chests pressed together because he needs to be closer to you. It's not close enough for him, but it'll have to do.

But don't think this isn't affecting him, sex with love is way different than the hook-ups he had. He's panting like a dog, messy hair and dilated pupils. He's absolutely drowning in pleasure, reaching the deepest parts of you while your fingers are still firmly laced together. He'd be very insistent that you come together (he's probably the one that has to hold himself back) and he'd stroke your clit or suck on your tits, whatever tips you over the edge.

I believe the closer he gets to coming undone, the more incoherent babbles of love spill from his lips. It's all desperate and needy "I love you"s in between moans and groans. There are definitely night where he was more control, but this one is not one of them.

After he's brought you earthshattering bliss, and he tiped over the edge himself (he'd preferably come inside of you, but he wouldn't mind pulling out if that's what you wanted) he'll lay down with you. There's no rush, just the two of you gently coming out of your haze of pleasure.

Bruce can't ever shut up, which makes him the king of pillowtalk. You'll just take for a little while, make sure you're both okay before it's time to clean up and get ready for bed.

Depending on how deep you're into the evening, he'll either gently wipe you down with either a damp towel, make sure you're both getting some water, or he'll straight up pamper you with a full bath. I'm talking candles, bubbles, lots of differently scented soaps, and ,of course, his arms around you.

It's all very intimate and loving with tons of soft kisses to your temples, forehead or lips. After you're dried off, you'll help each other slip into your sleep attire before absolutely knocking out for a good 9 hours and waking up in the loving embrace of your lover with the sun kissing your cheeks.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ────── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Hope you liked it, anon! <3

《Tag list》: @allysunny @certifiedredhoodlover @hellonheels-x @gaozorous-rex-blog

Lmk if you want to be added to my DC tag list! (Currently entails Bale!Bruce and Jason Todd)

[jadeshifting]

AMORTENTIA.

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　

the air in the dungeon was practically electric, a low hum of whispered gossip and barely-contained giggles rippling through the students as they slid into their seats. today was the day—Amortentia day. everyone was buzzing, eyes darting around, wondering who among them might catch a whiff of their essence in the swirling potion. the curiosity was intoxicating: what would you smell? would it reveal some secret crush, or confirm a love you hadn’t dared to voice? the thought of brewing it, learning its secrets for future use, had everyone on edge, hearts thudding with anticipation. the room was alive with possibilities, every stir of a cauldron promising revelations and maybe, just maybe, a gossamer thread connecting you to the person you’re meant to be with

WHO IS IT THAT YOU SMELL ?

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˚☽˚.⋆ MATTHEO RIDDLE. dark chocolate and crackling embers devouring wood chips, with a hint of something dark and unidentifiable

˚☽˚.⋆ DRACO MALFOY. crisp winter air and freshly polished leather, laced with a whisper of expensive cologne

˚☽˚.⋆ THEODORE NOTT. ancient parchment and sandalwood, with undertones of the forest after an unforgiving storm

˚☽˚.⋆ PANSY PARKINSON. rich jasmine and a touch of spiced vanilla, wrapped in a cloud of luxurious bergamot perfume

˚☽˚.⋆ LORENZO BERKSHIRE. sea salt and sun-warmed driftwood, with a tiny hint of freshly squeezed lime

˚☽˚.⋆ BLAISE ZABINI. luxurious cooking spices and smooth, aged whiskey, with the faintest trace of cedarwood

˚☽˚.⋆ ASTORIA GREENGRASS. soft rose petals and sweet honey, tinged with the refreshing scent of a summer breeze

˚☽˚.⋆ DAPHNE GREENGRASS. mellow lavender and fresh morning dew, layered with a whisper of crisp apple

˚☽˚.⋆ MILLICENT BULSTRODE. earthy pine and rich musk, softened by the warmth of freshly brewed coffee

˚☽˚.⋆ HARRY POTTER. freshly cut grass and a hint of broomstick polish, with the undertone of gently burned bay leaves

˚☽˚.⋆ HERMIONE GRANGER. crisp parchment and freshly brewed peppermint tea, with a subtle whiff of vanilla candle wax

˚☽˚.⋆ RON WEASLEY. warm cinnamon and rich butterbeer, tinged with the comforting scent of old wood

˚☽˚.⋆ LUNA LOVEGOOD. the ethereal scent of rain-soaked wildflowers and a hint of parchment, like secrets whispered in a moonlit meadow

˚☽˚.⋆ GINNY WEASLEY. the fiery aroma of spiced apple cider and freshly mown grass, full of warmth and untamed spirit

˚☽˚.⋆ FRED WEASLEY. fiery cloves and burnt sugar, mingling with some mysterious electric buzz

˚☽˚.⋆ GEORGE WEASLEY. smoky bonfires and caramel toffee, layered with a cheeky twist of citrus zest

˚☽˚.⋆ CEDRIC DIGGORY. golden apples and the fresh scent of a cool river breeze, tinged with warm amber

˚☽˚.⋆ NEVILLE LONGBOTTOM. freshly turned soil and blooming flowers, with a faint trace of sun-ripened strawberries

˚☽˚.⋆ CHO CHANG. delicate baby’s breath blossoms and soft raindrops, with a whisper of green tea with too much sugar

˚☽˚.⋆ CORMAC MCLAGGEN. sharp citrus and molten pine candle wax, layered with the crispness of mountain air

˚☽˚.⋆ OLIVER WOOD. freshly mown grass and clean sweat, mixed with morning dew on wood and the stirring of broom polish

˚☽˚.⋆ SEAMUS FINNEGAN. smoky campfires and a hint of spiced firewhiskey, laced with the tang of sea salt

˚☽˚.⋆ DEAN THOMAS. charcoal sketches and warm cocoa, blended with the cozy scent of old bookshops

˚☽˚.⋆ REMUS LUPIN (ooh, scandal). warm honey and worn leather, with a trace of earthy pine forests after rain

THE JUICY AFTERMATH.

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the aftermath of Amortentia class is pure, unfiltered chaos. whispers turned into gasps when Dean realized his girlfriend didn’t catch his scent in the potion—no, she smelled someone else entirely. in front of everyone, too… yikes.

.　　. 　 ˚　. meanwhile, Astoria’s cheeks turned into fiery roses when she realized she smelled the awkward Gryffindor idiot she sneered at in the hallway (RON!! WEASLEY!!), and now she had to question practically everything about herself and her sensibilities

.　　. 　 ˚　. but the real scandal? Padma smelled Professor Lupin. yep, full-on professor. she looked like she wanted to sink into the floor, but how embarrassing was it, really? (no one else wanted to admit it, but plenty of his students knew that the gentle cadence of his voice and his capable nature made them swoon in class.) friendships were tested, secrets spilled, and the whole castle buzzed with the fallout of who smelled what—and more importantly, who smelled who

WHAT DOES YOUR AMORTENTIA SMELL LIKE ?

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after all, if you know, you can zero in the moment someone else smells you—you hear someone whisper a description of your particular brand of personal fragrance, and their harbored affections for you are on full display for you to take advantage of

˚☽˚.⋆ freshly baked cinnamon rolls on a chilly morning, the scent of the creamy glaze cutting through the bite of the cold air

˚☽˚.⋆ the buttery sweetness of caramel popcorn at the fairgrounds, playful and indulgent, mixed with the salty tang of sea breeze at sunset

˚☽˚.⋆the rich, creamy fragrance of coconut oil warming on sun-kissed skin, luscious and inviting

˚☽˚.⋆ the soft, powdery scent of lavender sachets in a vintage wardrobe, delicate and calming with an undertone of light wood shavings

˚☽˚.⋆ the silky smooth scent of jasmine tea steaming in a porcelain cup, refined and subtly intoxicating

˚☽˚.⋆ crisp, clean and freshly laundered linen on a breezy day mixed with the sweet, fruity aroma of ripe peaches on a summer afternoon

THIS YEAR’S AMORTENTIA DISASTERS.

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sure, there’s always one or two, but the Amortentia mishaps that year were legendary

.　　. 　 ˚　. first off, poor Cormac accidentally dosed himself—yeah, rookie mistake—and spent a week hopelessly in love with his reflection (but how different was that from his true self, anyway? no way of knowing.)

.　　. 　 ˚　. then there was Katie, who slipped a few drops into a goblet meant for Mr. Harry Potter of boy-who-lived fame, only for his best friend Hermione to pick it up instead. The look on Katie’s face when Granger started waxing poetic about Katie’s “brilliance” in the middle of the great hall was priceless—but, of course, Hermione was beet red and positively humiliated after it wore off, and i believe the two haven’t spoken since. i think Katie learned her lesson, though.

.　　. 　 ˚　. and let’s not forget Jenny, who finally got her crush, Maximus, to fall head over heels—only to discover lovesick Maximus was clingy with a capital C. cue sleepless nights and desperate whispered pleas for antidotes. a couple of brave (or just plain desperate) students tried to brew their own fixes in the dorms, resulting in green smoke, shrieking mandrakes, and one extremely unfortunate case of squishy bones and a subsequent trip to the hospital wing

.　　. 　 ˚　. and of course, the pièce de résistance: Parvati and Lavender dragging a moonstruck Ruby to Slughorn, her eyes glazed over, babbling sonnets about a completely baffled Draco Malfoy—he loved attention, sure, but he looked like he wanted to die. Slughorn went easy on her to save them the embarrassment. the whole school buzzed with these tales, each mishap adding another layer of absurdity to a year that already had more than enough going on

GOOD LUCK IN LOVE THIS YEAR, WITCHES AND WIZARDS

yours truly,

— me :^)

[loki-cees-all]

Ch. 4 - Hope Against Hope {Against All Odds - TVA!Loki x Female Reader Longfic}

Previous Chapter / AO3 Link / Against All Odds Masterlist / Next Chapter

Pairing : TVA!Loki x Female Reader

Summary : After you and Loki do the deed, Loki does a little soul-searching.

W/c : 4.7k words

Content / Warnings : Smut (p-in-v), angst (knife-in-heart), mentions of a future addiction for the reader (nothing specific is mentioned, and no actual use of illicit substances ever takes place), and Loki rifling through all of your stuff. It's fine, though! He has a good reason!

Author's Note : Apologies this is so late! It really, really got away from me, and I was absolutely struggling to get it done. But, it turns out I was just trying to do too much in one chapter, so once I cut it off at what was the halfway point, it became much more manageable. (Major shoutout to @infinitystoner for helping me with that. I love you!) Anyway, happy reading!

18+ Only - Minors DNI

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ──  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅  ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

Date : June 26th, 1977 [Sacred Timeline]

Throughout his thousand years of existence, Loki had witnessed a great deal of beautiful things. The golden shine of the palace he’d grown up in was the first; its light reflected brighter than the birth of a newborn star, shining down with a brilliance unrivaled to anything short of divine intervention. 

Every morning, he’d awake in awe of its splendor, and every night, when he laid his head upon his pillow, he’d wonder if anyone else ever noticed the terrible irony of such a gorgeous place containing the harshest of people. 

The exquisite gardens of Asgard had always been his favorite place to be. Carefully tended to and guided by his mother’s loving hand, they contained every species of flower from each of the Nine Realms - meticulously organized by the shade of their petals, and perpetually in bloom thanks to her seidr. 

It was the perfect place for reflection; he had spent many late nights in those gardens, wandering up and down the rows, taking in the sweet aroma of the flowers and pondering his lot in life. And during the worst of Thanos’ many tortures, he’d often imagine he was back there inside Frigga’s gardens - shielded and protected, and lost in majesty instead of in pain. 

And the stunning destruction of the Bifrost would haunt him for the rest of his days. The explosion’s light caught the shards of the Rainbow Bridge and almost blinded him, illuminating nothing but his many failures in the most glorious of ways as he fell into its wake. The Bifrost had faded into golden dust, and clouds of sapphire and ultramarine had swirled together beneath him, and it was so magnificent that he almost forgot about the look of sheer disappointment upon his father’s face. 

But none of those things, not a single one of them, could ever compare to the sight of you coming undone beneath his devoted tongue. 

Loki continued working, his mouth and eyes eagerly taking in the evidence of your pleasure. His hands gripped your waist tight, as if to squeeze out every ounce of it that he could, while his lips and tongue lavished your clit. He’d never tasted something so divine, and he never wanted your pleasure to end. 

You cried out his name like the holiest of prayers, and Loki moaned its accompaniment. He could almost see the light radiating off your skin as your back arched off the bed, and the blood in his veins surged with want as your thighs trembled against his ears. He desperately needed more, to keep you sated and satisfied in euphoria for as long as he could - but he also needed to be careful. 

Because as far as you knew, Loki was just another simple mortal - one that had a job, and a family, and paid taxes. A human man, one that played rugby on the weekends, someone who was going to die in about forty years - when he was actually the furthest from anything that even resembledbanality. 

Ordinarily, in situations like this, Loki’s seidr would be on full display - to set the mood by lighting the fire in the hearth and the candles on the nightstand. To keep the wine flowing in their glasses, and the sheets warm against your bare skin. To remove his clothing in a flash of green light, just so he could bury himself inside you the exact second he wanted to. 

And Gods, how he helplessly wanted to be inside you again. 

Loki hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since the night in the alleyway. It had been feral and hurried, dangerous and reckless, to take you against that wall and in public, but he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t the best he’d ever had. And it was so foolish of himself to think he could get by with only having you once, and so incredibly selfish to take you again while knowing what he knew about your future…

But even still, Loki’s cock ached underneath his trousers, throbbing in sync with every single beat of his heart. Desire coursed violently throughout his veins, mixing with both heat and adrenaline as he continued ravishing between your legs. He could feel you clenching rhythmically, your fingers tangling in his hair and your hips grinding upwards, and he could never deny you what you wanted. 

You were just past the height of ecstasy when Loki began to crawl up your body, following behind his lips as they worshiped your skin. He kissed his way up your belly, gazing up at your ethereal expression as your head lolled back and forth on the pillow. Aftershocks washed over you, one by one, and your lips parted with desperate breath and pleasured murmurs. It was beautiful, and perfect, and of nothing but sheer divinity. 

Loki kept his gaze locked on your face as he slowly kissed along your ribs, and your feet flexed, pressing into his hips as yours continued writhing. Your fingers curled tighter around his hair, a silent plea to urge him on, and he couldn’t believe that even after all of this, even while completely lost in the throes of ecstasy, you still wanted more of him. 

His initial plan had been to take you as slowly as possible - to savor, and to idolize you. He’d never been wanted like this before, and he didn’t know if this would be the last time he’d get to experience it. A lifetime of neglect had taught him affection was ever fleeting, and he should always relish it whenever it came. What little patience he had was quickly disappearing by the second, soon to be nothing but a distant memory of the time before he was whole again. 

Your eyes stayed closed as his name tumbled from your lips, and Loki knew this was the moment. He kept one hand clutched tight around your hip, and brought the other down to his belt, unbuckling it just enough to make a sound before his seidr dissolved the remaining clothing from his body and transported them to the floor, as if they’d been tossed aside in a hurry. 

He moved upwards again, and when he reached your nipple and pulled it into his mouth, you whimpered in pleasure and dragged your nails across his scalp. A deep groan rumbled in his throat and he began to suck harder, flicking his tongue wildly against the stiffening peak. This time you let out a sharp gasp, and your feet planted on the mattress to arch your back even more and press your hips against something, anything, of his. 

Loki graciously slid his thigh up to soothe the ache between your quivering legs, and you eagerly locked on to it, grinding your swollen clit against his taut muscles. You had been more than wet when he had gone down on you before, but now you were positively drenched with arousal, and Loki loved that about you. He’d never been so hard in his life, precum dripping onto your belly from the head of his glistening cock as the musk of sex filled the room. 

Your head tilted back into the pillow and your thighs trembled violently, supported only by your tiptoes and your upper back as another orgasm ripped through you. Loki cupped your other breast, his thumb circling its nipple as he sucked even harder on the first, trying desperately to hold back his own ecstasy until he was buried deep inside you. 

But that battle was becoming more and more difficult to win, and his equanimity was dissipating with each and every one of your breathless moans and whimpers. Loki moved his hands to carefully guide your feet flat, and then massaged your calves and thighs into relaxing as he carefully pulled his lips away from your nipple. 

As he moved closer, your hands shifted to cling to his neck, his shoulders, his arms. Anything you could read, everything about him that was solid and real. He wanted so badly to assure you that he was, to shout it from the rooftops that he wasn’t just real, that he was - in fact - yours, and that was the only real thing that mattered. 

Loki’s lips were on your collarbone when he finally coaxed your legs into position, relaxed but open for him. You were making unintelligible noises and your body continued trembling, but your hips kept rolling as he slowly settled his weight onto you and pressed his hips against yours. 

“Loki…oh my, God, Loki…” you gasped breathlessly, sliding your hands up along his neck to his hair, to tangle in the mess of matted and sweaty curls against his scalp. 

His breath shuddered as he gazed upon you, eyelids fluttering open and shut, and pupils dilated so wide to take him all in. His lips hovered just a touch above yours, inhaling as you exhaled, leaning in as you pulled him closer. He wasn’t running or cowering away, there was no fleeing or escaping. For the first time since the Tesseract had slid to his feet in the lobby of Stark Tower, Loki was exactly where he wanted to be. 

“Yes, my darling…I’m here, just breathe…” he whispered, dragging his nose along the edge of yours. His voice shifted into a groan as you wrapped your legs around his waist; the soft skin of your thighs burned against him, branding a reminder into his flesh that this was where he belonged, and the soaked heat between your legs beckoned him back home. 

The two of you were as naked as the day you were born - one born on Earth, and one born on Jotunheim. Dark green and satin sheets lay beneath you, twisted and tangled upon your bed. The air inside your room was almost overwhelming, a delicious mixture of heat and musk, and despite the very early morning hour, the city of London still bustled just outside your window, cruelly unaware of the magic that was about to happen above them. 

Your lips met again, and even though the kiss was just as hungry as that night in the alleyway, there was something else now with it - a touch of familiarity, of knowing and acceptance even though it couldn’t really be - not with all the lies he’d been telling, and the truth he’d been withholding. Loki kissed you harder, trying to push those thoughts out of his brain, and you happily reciprocated. 

As you introduced your tongue to the kiss, Loki cupped the back of your skull with one hand, and brought the other between your hips as he began to rock against you, dragging himself against your entrance and teasing you both into oblivion. Neither of you needed any further teasing, but he did it anyway, just to add the final touch of urgency. You whimpered and opened your hips even further, and on the next push, he was inside you again. 

Suddenly, everything made perfect sense as the entire universe opened up before him. Loki let out the hoarsest of groans as he pushed deeper, and your lower back arched even more beneath him. Your fingers curled even tighter around his hair, your lips fell from his to moan his name again, and you were so wet and warm and safe that he felt like nothing could ever hurt him again. 

All he ever wanted was to feel like this, and he slowly pulled himself out, just short of all the way, before sinking himself back inside. Your hips writhed uncontrollably as he did that a few more times, and Loki realized that you also needed the reminder that even if he pulled away or left completely, he would always come back to you. That he would never not be thinking of you, or of this. 

Loki was already ruined before he began thrusting even faster, and there was absolutely nothing that could have ever stopped him. He buried his face against your neck and arched his back more harshly, pulling all the way out before pumping back inside. Your muscles squeezed around him, and your voice was nothing but breathless and incoherent gasps and moans as you took him in over and over again. 

He snaked one arm around your back and the other around your waist as he moved faster, grunting and groaning against your skin as your fingertips scratched at his scalp. His muscles tensed as yours did, and he could tell by the sound of your voice that you were getting close already. His own orgasm was just seconds away, coiling around in his belly, stretching and yearning to break free as he drove himself harder, faster, deeper. 

The tension broke simultaneously, and you cried out together, curling tightly around each other’s bodies, clinging for dear life as you came together. Endorphins and hormones coursed through Loki’s veins as the universe came into being, with stars exploding and dust swirling to form the galaxies and planets and realms that could stretch longer and further than anyone would ever know. 

You clung so tightly to him during it all, as if you could see what he saw, but somehow he was the only thing that mattered. How could that be, that while an entire universe was being born, that the goddess of a mortal underneath could only look up at him? 

Loki didn’t understand it one bit, but he didn’t need to, because all he could feel and see and smell was you. His hips continued rocking, shallower now that he was absolutely spent, and his sighs were heavy in the crook of your neck. He was in total and complete bliss when you let out a choked sob against his ear, and it instantly brought him back to reality. 

“Darling…darling, what’s wrong?” he murmured, kissing your neck and squeezing you tighter. Had he done something wrong? Had he unintentionally hurt you in some way while lost in his own pleasure? 

He could feel you shake your head, even as another sob escaped you. He could feel the tears streaming down your face and coating his own cheek, but your limbs still wrapped harder around him. Slowly, Loki lifted his head even though he was terrified of what he might see upon your face. His heavy eyelids fluttered open, his blurred vision effortlessly obscuring the tangled limbs and sweaty skin you both shared. 

But when your face finally came into view, there was a smile beneath the tears on your cheeks. Your messy hair framed your face like an untidy halo - disconnected from, but still beautiful and fitting for the angel who wore it. Loki would never forget that smile and its tears, so happy and yet so sad all at the same time. 

“I don’t know why, Loki…but I’ll be fine, I promise…” you answered in a voice that was so floating and breathless and light.

He could tell you meant it, and it should have reassured him, but it didn’t. The image of that newspaper from 1983 suddenly flashed before his eyes, and Loki remembered the initial reason he had come home with you last night. 

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅ ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

Date : June 27th, 1977 [Sacred Timeline]

Loki wasn’t exactly sure what he was searching for, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying. 

The sun was just beginning to encroach over the horizon, sending its rays over the city and into the bay windows of your high-rise flat. He padded cautiously into your living room, thankful for the plush white carpets between his toes to mute his exhausted steps. 

There was nothing he wanted more than to slip back into bed with you and sleep the day away, but he had to take this opportunity while he still had the chance. 

Loki could still see you, sleeping soundly in the arms of the duplicate he’d casted so as to not rouse any suspicion while he snooped. It felt so wrong to be doing this now, so soon after the night you’d just shared together, but the guilt of your future was driving him forward, egging him on and eating him away so badly he wouldn’t be able to have another decent rest even if he tried. 

And it was odd, feeling jealous of something he’d conjured to keep you distracted, and in bed. It was, technically-speaking, him…but it wasn’t him- and he was the one who desperately needed the rest. Loki hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since well before Thanos’ capture, since he had lived in the palace on Asgard, and he had no idea when he’d be able to have it again…

Nevertheless, Loki shook his head and rolled it back and forth between his shoulders. His joints popped and cracked as he stretched his arms up over head, extending and pulling and desperately willing his limbs to fully awaken for the task at hand. He opened his eyes wider to take in more light, and he filled his lungs with as much oxygen as he could muster, held it for as long as he could, and released it slowly through his nose. 

If anyone else could see him, they’d say he was stalling. Deception ordinarily came easy to him - Odin had taken advantage of that many times - but this was different; in fact, this was much, much worse. And he knew he wasn’t going to like what he found, but it needed to be seen anyway. He had to know if he was the cause of your future addiction, or if had already started before you’d even met. 

Loki began his search in the kitchen, opening up the cupboards and pantries, quietly sliding items aside so he could see any possible illicit substances hidden in the back. He checked on top of the refrigerator and deep inside the freezer for excessive quantities of alcohol. He even looked through the drawers of silverware and utensils, the mail on top of the counter, the pockets of your coats hung by the front door for something, anything, that hinted at your painful future. 

But he found nothing, just like he was afraid of. And it wasn’t because he wanted you to have an addiction, to be suffering silently and hiding your pain away from the world - he didn’t want that to happen to you at all, ever. But the more he searched, the more it became apparent that he would be the eventual cause of it. 

And if he did manage to find something, he could offer you the help you needed. He could take care of you, instead of hurting you. He could be of use for something good, instead of the destruction he normally was. 

From the kitchen, he returned to the living room, shoving his hands between the couch cushions and underneath the sofas. He flipped through the magazines stacked on the coffee table, and pulled the books off the bookshelves. All the while, trying so hard not to think about how he was going to eventually make addiction a reality for you. 

Loki could tell you were eager to learn more about him, to know him more than just as a man who kept you company at night, and it was getting harder to dodge your questions. He knew you would have more when you awoke, and it wasn’t that you didn’t deserve to hear the answers, because of course you did. You deserved everything happy and safe and beautiful there could ever be, and Loki truly wanted to be the one to give all of that to you. 

But Loki didn’t know what to tell you, because that had never been the truth of his reality. So what was he supposed to tell you? That he was the monster that parents told their children about at night? 

That he’s an alien being from another realm, who could travel through time and space? That there were different versions of every single person living within multiple universes, and that in 35 years his past self would try to lead an alien army to violently take over New York City? 

At best, you wouldn’t believe him at all, and at worse, you’d absolutely hate him for it…even if doing that is exactly what brought him to you in the first place. 

After the last book was slid back into place, Loki sighed and turned his attention to the living room as a whole. Everything was clean and organized, everything had a specific place to be and was already there, and absolutely nothing was amiss. Nothing and everything was wrong, all at the same time, and the realization almost brought him to his knees. 

Loki was going to ruin your life eventually; the only question now was how he was going to do it, and when he was going to hammer that final nail inside your coffin. Was it going to be as soon as you woke up? Was it going to be because he finally told you the truth? 

His fingers pressed into his eye sockets as he collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing away furiously as he pondered his options. Truthfully speaking, how much time did you two have left together? The Loom was still on the verge of total destruction back at the TVA; his friends were back there right now, working tirelessly on a solution while he selfishly snuck away to see you again. To coddle his own emotions and guilt, when none of that would matter if they were unable to save the timelines at all. 

And what was he supposed to do if they managed to prevent the Loom’s destruction? Keep sneaking away to come see you like a long-distance lover? Make up a pretend job for himself, never tell you the truth, and force you to perpetually linger in the liminal space between his crafted persona and who he actually was? 

Not even he could keep a lie that massive forever. You would eventually discover the truth, or perhaps you would realize that there even was a truth different from the one he was selling you. Maybe what the truth was actually didn’t matter; maybe what mattered was that you couldn’t keep living a lie, and that was all it took to break you. 

Loki leaned forward on the sofa, his elbows digging into his knees while dragging his fingertips down his cheeks and over his mouth. His palms pressed together in a silent prayer as his eyes roamed over the room. His eyes filled with tears as he realized this would have to be the last time he ever looked upon it. He would have to leave you, before either of you fell too hard - and maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to save you more than it would destroy him. 

His expression was solemn as he stood back up from the sofa. He hoped he’d been overthinking your expression in the alleyway a week ago, in the club the night before, in your bed as you’d come together. His heart broke as he prayed that you didn’t actually care about him as much as he already cared about you, that this would actually be easy for you. That you still had the strength to pick up the pieces and carry on with your life. 

As Loki turned to leave the living room, to start the long journey back to your bedroom and kiss you goodbye, his eyes caught the painting above your dining room table. His frown shifted into a smile, although his eyes were as distraught and disillusioned as ever. He stepped closer and pressed his fingertips across the frame, thinking about all the stories this single painting told. 

You were so unbelievably talented; every brush stroke had been as carefully placed as the belongings inside your flat. How he wished he could see this tree that you loved so much, and how he longed to feel the same kind of permanent comfort that it seemed to bring you even now. He’d never felt such everlasting solace in his entire life, and he’d even happily settle for being able to provide that kind of love for you some day. 

But it just wasn’t meant to be. And for now, all Loki could hope for was that your father or your friends could help you still move on. 

He reluctantly pulled away and returned down the hallway, training his eyes straight ahead to avoid the beautiful and happy photographs plastered all over the walls. He tried desperately not to look at the candelabrum on the narrow bookshelf. But of course, the morning light caught it, reflecting off the polished brass and right into his anguished gaze. 

Loki couldn’t help but pause in front of it, right outside the doorway to your bedroom. He could hear you breathing in your bed, slowly and peacefully, in the arms of his duplicate. You were so close, and yet so far, because he couldn’t tear himself away from the hall and its haunted reminder of his past life. 

He’d seen that candelabrum before, but he didn’t know how it had found its way here. Surely, it had to be a coincidence, right? That the asymmetrically curved pieces swung upright to form the horns of the golden headpiece he used to wear before the TVA had taken him away? 

Devil’s horns, the enemies of Asgard used to call them. The Dökkláfar of Alfheim had considered them omens of death, but it wasn’t in the same way they had feared Odin’s power, or his brother’s hammer. Those items could always be seen before striking down their enemies; their power was out in the open, demanding to be witnessed, and punishing for their disobedience to the throne. 

But by the time an enemy ever saw Loki’s horns, it was already too late. The damage was already done, secretly in the shadows and hidden upon layers and layers of deceptions and lies. His enemies were already dead by the time Loki finally revealed himself and his Devil’s horns, and their last few seconds were usually spent wondering which trick it was that struck the final blow. 

So what were they doing here, in this young woman’s flat? In London, in 1977, where he’d never been before and surely would never return to again? Surely there was no way you knew what they actually represented. No, it had to just be an unhappy coincidence. 

Back on Asgard, Loki had been repeatedly regulated to operating within the shadows. In his younger years, he had believed it was simply because that was where he excelled. But then he knew better; he knew that Odin had kept him in the shadows intentionally, that he was fit to exist in the light. And now, he was being forced to recede into the shadows yet again, to be nothing but a hopefully wistful and fond memory of yours. 

He had only just found you. He had only just come to know the caring touch of peace, and already he was having to give it back up. 

Another tear rolled down Loki’s cheek, and he quickly wiped it away. He let out a sharp breath, steeled his jaw, and stepped back inside your bedroom, not at all ready to do the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. 

⊱ ── ༓ ── ⋅•⋅⊰ ──  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ∙ ⋅  ── ⊱⋅•⋅ ── ༓ ── ⊰

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[aspiringtrashpanda]

I LOVE OUR COLLECTIVE SON. Find the prompt list HERE.

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

DAY 17 Prompt: Luke Additional tags: Introspection, plant care, super vague hint to spoilers

“How are you doing today?” 

Luke checked the soil of the potted scorching sunflower on his bedroom windowsill. It was dry to the touch, ready for its daily sip of water. As Luke pushed his curtains to the side, positioned the plant’s flower facing the full moon, he checked all of the deep green leaves for any hint of decay.

“A little thirsty,” He acknowledged, “But you still seem healthy.”

His fingers pinched one of the velvety golden petals, humming in satisfaction as the heat that thrummed through the flower seeped through his skin. The fastest way to measure a scorching sunflower’s health was to ensure it was still converting moonlight to warmth. 

“It’s funny to think that talking to you has become a routine for me,” Luke murmured, propping the pot onto his homemade drainage system (a tupperware with holes poked in the bottom, turned upside down in a shallow bowl) and gently pouring a small stream of fresh water into the soil. “It feels like just yesterday that Beelzebub was passing on Mammon’s tip.”

“You are a lot happier since I started talking to you, huh?” With a smile, Luke carefully preened any dead leaves from the plant’s underside. “I do wonder why Mammon knows anything about plants, though.” 

He giggled, pausing his ministrations to consider, “Maybe he tried to grow a Grimm tree.”

With his sunflower care complete, Luke allowed himself to sink down onto the bench that lined the bay window, placing his chin atop his knuckles as he peered out at the Devildom street just past the glass. He had grown to like the location of Purgatory Hall. Off the beaten path, but not too far removed from the stores downtown. They were close enough to the hustle and bustle that demons–most often couples and those taking their curious beasts on an evening stroll–still passed by.

Tonight was nothing out of the ordinary. Luke’s eyes traced the path of a young demon who looked roughly his own age. They laughed, tugged along by an overeager hellhound puppy. Luke felt a familiar squirming in his gut. 

“When I first came to the Devildom, I hated demons. I thought they were bad. Evil and immoral.” He sighed, his fingers absently playing with the scorching sunflower petals, “But now, I don’t think they’re so bad after all.” 

“I don’t like to admit it, but… I think they’re my friends,” Luke’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. On the other side of the glass, the hellhound skidded to a halt, turned around, and tugged the young demon back the way they came. The dog’s nose never left the pavement, clearly tracking some scent. 

“At least, Barbatos and Beelzebub. Barbatos helps me with my baking, and I know I say that I want to be a better pastry chef to please Michael, but I’ve started to notice… Well, I look forward to giving my sweets to Beelzebub, even if he is the worst taste tester in all three realms. His praise is nice, I guess.” Luke shut his mouth, let the confession sit. When nothing bad happened, he added, “And I don’t mind Leviathan and Satan much, either. Leviathan is always happy to tell me about new games he thinks I might like, and Satan isn’t as scary as I thought he’d be. He’s nice to cats. Cats wouldn’t like a mean monster.”

The demon with the hellhound was trying to wrestle an unknown object from the dog’s mouth. Luke could hear the demon laughing, cooing at their puppy and begging it to drop the stick! The dog’s tail was wagging so swiftly, Luke thought for a moment that it had two tails. The pressure grew in his stomach, a hole opening up in his chest. Why would such a wholesome scene make him so very sad? 

“Does that make me a bad angel?” Luke asked his flower, “Raphael says that showing kindness to all beings is necessary for maintaining a pure soul, but Simeon did that and…”

He slammed his mouth shut, hesitated, and then whispered so softly, he could barely hear his own words,“Would it be so bad to fall?” 

Yet the demon and their hellhound moved past Purgatory Hall, and the moon remained as silent as ever. Luke sat in the quiet, in the dark of the Devildom until a ding from his D.D.D. lit up the device’s screen. It was a message from Mammon, asking if Luke wanted to go hunt faeries in the human world.  

“Why can’t we all live in harmony, together?” Luke muttered, and this time he thought his scorching sunflower tilted its head towards him. 

“It doesn’t feel very kind to keep everyone apart.” 

── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ──

OBEY ME! MONTH MASTERLIST

[onyx666]

☽◯☾ let the moon settle you ☽◯☾

chapter 2

pairing : finnick odair x black fem!reader

warnings : none

don’t hesitate to click on the links （＾ν＾）(underlined text)

Roses are simple flowers. They've always been and always will be, except in Eleven, especially the white ones. Growing in the wilderness here, they're saved for children. At least, that was the case for Jalen. Withholding the symbolism of purity, innocence, and childhood in their color, they rose from the ground to land on top of those kids' graves, burying every strand of hope in their path. It all made sense when you saw them hanging on the Capitol walls, especially in Snow's jacket lapels.

After your return to District Eleven, the air hung heavy with a mixture of celebration and mourning. The stark contrast between the opulence of the Capitol and the solemn reality of Jalen's absence weighed on your heart.

The funeral, a somber affair in the familiar confines of the District became a painful testament to the toll the Hunger Games exacted.

As you stood amidst mourners, grief manifested in every face, you couldn't escape the ache that clung to you.

The simplicity of the white roses, once symbols of innocence, now took on a profound meaning as they adorned Jalen's casket. The earthy fragrance mixed with the heavy scent of grief, and each petal seemed to carry the weight of a lost future.

Jalen's family, faces etched with sorrow, gathered around the gravesite. As you returned with a heavy heart, you felt the weight of responsibility and guilt that came with surviving the Games.

You longed to offer solace to his family, but the chasm left by his absence felt insurmountable.

The funeral unfolded like a painful hymn, each note resonating with the collective sorrow of the District. With a heart burdened by the echoes of the arena, you approached Jalen's casket. The air was thick with unspoken words, and as you laid eyes on his lifeless form, the reality of his sacrifice hit you anew, a tidal wave of anguish crashing against the walls you had built to shield yourself .

The simple gesture of placing wheat in his hand felt like an inadequate offering to the memory of a life lost. Wheat, a symbol of Eleven's resilience and strength, now served as a poignant tribute to Jalen's courage in the face of the Capitol's brutality.

Your fingers lingered on the golden strands, an attempt to grasp onto something tangible amidst the intangible pain.

As you stood there, wanting to rip your heart out and present it to his family in a desperate act of empathy, you realized that at the end of the day, no tribute, no matter how heartfelt, could mend the chasm left by Jalen's death.

The weight of survival, the guilt of being the one to return, bore down on your shoulders.

The air echoed with a heavy silence, each step you took through the muted streets of District Eleven resonating like a lonely heartbeat.

The once-vibrant atmosphere now dulled to shades of gray, the collective grief hanging like a shroud over the community.

As you entered the hushed expanse of the Victors' Village, even the rustling leaves seemed to hush their whispers in respect for the departed.

Your mother, worn by the day's burdens, had departed for work or some other pressing matter, leaving you alone to navigate the quiet corridors of your so-called new "home'

In the dim light of the hallway, a faint glimmer caught your eye-a hint of cerulean peeking through the muted tones of the room. Your steps quickened as you approached the mahogany desk in the study, and there, like a breath of color against the gray, lay a blue envelope.

Hesitation filled your soul before unfolding the delicate parchment, revealing words that spoke of empathy and understanding, a lifeline cast in the sea of sorrow.

The surname « Moon » engraved on the top of the sealed document was already foreshadowed the identity of the sender.

You can’t help but remember the night that nickname is linked to, because in the end, Snow did in fact talk to you that evening.

[Capitol - 17-19] - (The Victor’s Party)

President Snow leaned back in his ornate chair, a glint of calculated amusement in his cold eyes. "You're finally stepping into a world beyond the arena, my dear. A world where the games continue, but the battlefield has shifted."

Your expression guarded, met his gaze. "What does that mean?"

Snow's smile was more a predatory baring of teeth. "Victory in the Hunger Games is but the beginning. You've won the Games, but now you're part of a grander spectacle."

Your eyes narrowed. "I didn't sign up for political games. I survived the arena. That was the deal"

Snow chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Survival, my dear, is an art form. And your canvas is about to expand. The Capitol expects a performance from its victors. A display of loyalty, gratitude, and compliance."

You scoffed, a hint of defiance in your voice. "I won't be a pawn in your games."

Snow's gaze grew colder. "Every victor must play their part. The adoration of the crowd is fleeting, but the consequences of disobedience are not."

You square your shoulders. "I won't pretend to be something I'm not."

His tone turned ominous. "We all have a way of making even the strongest conform.

Think carefully, my dear. Your choices have ripples that extend far beyond your grasp. Your mother’s safety, her tranquility, all lie in the balance. My expectations are unyielding, and the repercussions may lead you to a place far less forgiving than this celebration. Don't let your moment of triumph blind you to the reality of your new existence."

The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Snow's words settling over you like a suffocating cloak. The path ahead, once bathed in the glow of victory, now seemed shrouded in uncertainty and shadows.

Your jaw clenched, a mixture of anger and apprehension simmering beneath the surface.

"What exactly do you expect from me?" you demanded, your voice edged with defiance.

Snow leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a sinister gleam. "You see, The Capitol values its victors. But that glory comes with expectations."

He paused, letting the weight of his words linger in the air before continuing, "Your admirers in the Capitol have a certain appetite for... entertainment. And as a victor, you're expected to cater to their desires. A small price to pay for the privileges you enjoy, don't you think?"

You recoiled, your eyes narrowing with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. "You can't be serious."

Snow's smile remained chillingly composed. "Oh, but I am."

As the weight of Snow's insinuations settled, You felt a cold knot of realization in your stomach.

The glittering facade of victory was giving way to a reality far more insidious, where the Capitol's expectations extended beyond mere appearances, and the consequences of disobedience were hinted at in the shadows of Snow's ominous words.

Shivers crippled down your spine, dropping your eyes on your hands, you realized where you were, remembering what your hands were full with.

The cerulean letter that was in your hands was awaiting you.

Dear Moon,

As I sit down to pen this letter, I can't help but think about the path you're about to tread upon—the journey back to your home district, the echoes of grief that will accompany you, and the silence that will become your unwelcome companion.

I won't sugarcoat it; the life of a victor is a myth they don't tell you about after the Games.

The adulation of the crowd fades, and you're left with a hollowness that the Capitol's excesses can never fill. You'll find yourself grappling with a silence so profound it becomes its own form of torture.

Returning to your district won't be easy. The faces that once knew you as a neighbor, a friend, will now carry the weight of expectations and projections. The pain, the aching grief, will surround you, sometimes drowning you in a sea of emotions that only those who've walked this path can truly comprehend.

The seashell enclosed in this letter is a fragment, a small piece worn smooth by the tides, carrying the echoes of distant shores and the promise of tranquility.

Sometimes, holding onto a tangible piece of the past can anchor us in the present. I hope it brings you a sense of grounding amid the chaos.

You spoke of never seeing the sea that night we talked, and the ache in my chest has only grown since then. I ache to show it to you, to witness the calming effect it has, much like the moon on the ocean waves. I long for the day when you can experience its vastness, and perhaps find solace in its timeless beauty.

I yearn to share this moment with you. While Snow restricts our actions, perhaps one day, he’ll permit you to visit Four.

Until then, know that you're not alone in navigating the complexities of this existence. We're all stumbling through the silence together, trying to make sense of a life that defies understanding.

Take care, Moon. In the quiet moments, may you find strength, and in the moonlit nights, may you discover a glimmer of peace.

Warm regards,

Your Playboy.

"Your Playboy" you said with a huff. That boy must’ve lost his goddamn mind, you thought.

Not knowing if it was you or the grief talking, you admitted to yourself the truth.

Finnick’s words hit you like a soothing balm, offering a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. That blue envelope, now a silent messenger in your quiet home, symbolized an unexpected connection in the face of loss.

Deep down, beneath the surface of your consciousness, you always sensed that life after the Games would forever alter the fabric of your being.

The nightmares that haunted your sleep, the shadows that lingered in the recesses of your mind -all of it was a testament to the profound metamorphosis you underwent.

These fears became a shared journey, a common thread woven into the narratives of Pane's victors.

There was an innate knowing, a premonition that whispered truths before they unfolded.

The seashell cradled in your hands echoed the echoes of those unspoken fears.

Finnick's confirmation served as the closure you needed -a confirmation that resonated with the collective pulse of those who bore the weight of victory.

You acknowledged that your struggles were not solitary. Acknowledged the collective scars etched into the souls of Panem’s victors.

not proofread jsjsjsjsj ( i was supposed to post this ages ago omg)

[peanut-butter-parkerxx]

Brushstrokes of New Orleans: 002

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⋆♱✮☽🦇☽✮♰⋆

The garden of the Mikaelson mansion was a symphony of colors and textures, a lush tapestry woven from the finest threads of nature. Vibrant blooms cascaded from trellises and arbors, their petals kissed by the golden rays of the setting sun.

The air was alive with the heady scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, mingling with the earthy fragrance of damp soil. As Elijah and I wandered through the garden, I couldn't help but be struck by the beauty that surrounded us. Tall hedges of boxwood formed intricate mazes, their dark green foliage a stark contrast against the blooms that flourished at their feet. 

The path beneath our feet was paved with smooth cobblestones, their surface worn by the passage of time. Elijah cut a striking figure against the backdrop of the garden, his tall frame clad in a crisp white shirt and tailored trousers, his hazel eyes sparkled in the fading light. His movements were graceful and measured, each step a testament to his poise and refinement. 

Beside him, I felt small and insignificant, a mere mortal in the presence of a god. My own appearance felt inadequate in comparison, my simple dress and worn sneakers a far cry from the elegance of Elijah's attire.

As we walked, Elijah pointed out various artifacts hidden among the foliage, his gestures graceful and fluid. He moved with a quiet confidence, his every movement imbued with a sense of purpose and grace. His voice was smooth and melodic, a soothing balm to my restless soul.

I, on the other hand, felt awkward and clumsy by comparison, my movements hesitant and uncertain. I stumbled over roots and rocks, my eyes darting nervously from one artifact to the next. And yet, despite my ineptitude, Elijah never once made me feel inadequate. Instead, he guided me with patience and kindness, his presence a steady anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

There were statues of ancient gods and goddesses, their faces weathered by centuries of exposure to the elements. There were vases and urns adorned with intricate designs, their origins shrouded in mystery. But it was one particular piece that caught my eye, a small figurine nestled in the crook of a tree. It was made of delicate porcelain, its features exquisitely crafted with painstaking detail. I felt a flicker of recognition stir within me as I gazed upon it, a memory hovering just out of reach.

"Do you recognize this piece, Penny?" Elijah asked, his voice gentle as he studied my expression.I nodded slowly, a furrow forming on my brow. 

"Yes, I believe so," I replied tentatively. "It's the figurine of Demeter, the ancient Greek goddess of agriculture and fertility." Elijah's eyebrows lifted in surprise, a hint of admiration shining in his eyes. 

"Impressive," he remarked, his voice tinged with approval. "Not many people know the name, let alone the story behind it." I smiled modestly, a warm glow of satisfaction blooming in my chest at his praise. 

"I've always had a fascination with Greek mythology," I admitted, my voice tinged with excitement. "There's something so captivating about the tales of gods and goddesses, of heroes and villains." Elijah nodded, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. 

"Indeed," he agreed, his gaze drifting back to the figurine. "The story behind this piece is quite fascinating. It is said to have been crafted by a master artisan during the height of the Athenian Empire, a testament to the skill and craftsmanship of the era."

I listened intently as Elijah recounted the tale of the figurine, his words painting a vivid picture of a time long past. It was as if he had unlocked a door to another world, allowing me to step back in time and experience history in all its glory. 

"How do you know all of this?" I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me. "I mean, this piece isn't exactly well-known, and yet you seem to know everything about it." Elijah smiled modestly, a hint of amusement in his eyes. 

"I have a bit of a penchant for history," he admitted, his voice tinged with self-deprecation. "I find comfort in the stories of the past, in the forgotten artifacts that tell tales of bygone eras."

I couldn't help but smile at his confession, a warmth blooming in my chest at the thought of sharing this passion with him. It was a side of Elijah that I hadn't seen before.

As Elijah and I continued our leisurely stroll through the garden, we came across a small alcove tucked away beneath the shade of a sprawling oak tree. Nestled within the alcove was a pedestal upon which rested a singular artifact, its presence commanding our attention.

We both stopped in our tracks simultaneously, our eyes widening in recognition as we beheld the artifact before us. Without a word spoken between us, we both uttered the name of the piece at the exact same moment, a synchronicity that sent a shiver down my spine.

"The Forgotten Symphony," we said in unison. A soft smile graced Elijah's lips as he turned to me, a twinkle of curiosity shining in his eyes. 

"It seems we share a fondness for this particular piece," he remarked, his voice tinged with intrigue. I nodded eagerly, a warmth spreading through my chest at the realization that we had a shared appreciation for the same piece of art. 

"Yes, it's always been one of my favorites," I replied, my voice filled with excitement. "There's something so hauntingly beautiful about it, don't you think?" Elijah's gaze softened as he looked at me, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his expression. For a moment, he seemed lost in thought, as if lost in the depths of my eyes. And then, with a slight stutter, he began to explain the story behind the artifact. 

"The Forgotten Symphony," he began, his voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. "It's... it's a piece that holds a special place in my heart." I watched him intently, my curiosity piqued by his sudden hesitation. 

But before he could continue, I felt a surge of confidence wash over me, a desire to help him in any way that I could. And so, without missing a beat, I picked up where he had left off, recounting the tale of the Forgotten Symphony with passion and fervor.

"It's a piece that tells the story of lost love and longing," I explained, my voice steady and sure. "A symphony left unfinished, a melody that echoes through the ages, reminding us of the power of love and the pain of loss." As I spoke, I could feel Elijah's eyes on me, his gaze softening with each word that fell from my lips. And when I finally finished, there was a moment of silence between us. 

And then, with a slight blush staining his cheeks, Elijah turned away, his mysterious demeanor returning in full force. But I could see the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between us in that fleeting moment. 

"Now I understand why, your professor was so eager for us to meet."

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[resident-cake-anon]

omg i love httyd!!

Reblog with your F/O and/or S/I and I'll assign them a dragon (from HTTYD)

I'm a huge nerd for this series. I'm not like Fishlegs and know everything about every dragon but I just think it'll be a fun game!

[resident-cake-anon]

dress-up game event !!

to celebrate my blog's second anniversary, i'm hosting an event where you guys can dress up golden petals in any outfit you can imagine! more info below the cut :3c

❦. for this event, you guys can dress up golden petals in whatever outfits you would like! this could be two outfits, one for each of them or just one for either claude or catalina

❦. to participate in this event, you can either send in your outfit submission through my ask box, reblog, or dm! whatever you find is most convenient for you, i don't mind

❦. i'll then draw the golden petals cheebs in your chosen outfit! you can specify whether you want to see their academy or timeskip selves in your outfit

❦. these outfits can be practically anything! some examples are outfit swaps, fe dlc outfits, pajamas, etc. i only ask that you do give me a reference or something i can easily search a reference for like an existing outfit!

❦. i don't want to do too much of my own designing for this since it would be v time consuming. if you do send an ask like this, i can't promise i'll get to it

❦. the references can come from anywhere! can be irl pics of clothes, picrew outfits, outfits from other media, or even your own mock ups

❦. for now, i'm only accepting submissions until april 18th! i might extend the submission period depending on the number of submissions i get we'll see

❦. also i'm allowing multiple submissions per person! this might change if i get too overwhelmed but hopefully not hehe

❦. thank you to all who send in submissions!!

[silkmoon777]

The Arcana: Julian's Route | Chapter 3

!! THIS STORY IS A DETAILED RETELLING OF THE ARCANA, INCLUDING PAID SCENES IN BOTH PROLOGUE AND JULIAN ROUTE. ALL CHARACTERS EXCEPT THE MC ARE PROPERTY OF THE ARCANA FRANCHISE !!

A/N: This is a reupload from my AO3 cause I want to branch out. Enjoy!!

Summary: In a small shop in Vesuvia lives Vivian Caelum, a student of the magical arts who works as a shopkeeper for her tutor, Asra Alnazar. Her name is not known in the streets as her master's is, nor does she have full control over her magic yet. But one night, there's a knock at her door; Vivian is needed at the palace to help Countess Nadia upon her personal wishes. Soon, what she thinks is a small task is something she would never have expected her magic to be used for: Vivian must find Count Lucio's murderer. Will she be able to track down the infamous murderer and finally put the Countess's years of restlessness to ease? Or will the killer captivate her in ways she can't explain? Is she even running after the right man? Something deeper than she thought is happening within her beloved city, and she's about to understand the vastness of the magical realms.

Pairing: Julian Devorak x Fem!Magician Reader

This Chapter Contains: brief mentions/discussion of death

Word Count: 5,478

find the rest of the chapters in my masterlist here :)

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Marble. Everything is marble.

Steep, swooping ceilings cascade into carefully crafted pillars that line the walls. Polished marble floors stretch out infinitely, so glazed that I wouldn’t be surprised if a thin film of water settled overtop. The grand entrance is expansive and towering, ending ahead in a sweeping flight of stairs that meet the second story balustrade. Intricate details are not just found on the pillars, but on the ceiling. Carvings of suns and stars, lush foliage and indecipherable shapes meddle together, each curve and line lovingly chiseled into the stone. 

On either side of the palace doors stand two identical, towering women, their soft bodies draped in solidified silks. Their stone faces are turned skyward, chests puffed and nipples protruding through the portrayed fabric. In the hands closest to the doorway, the hold sceptres that cary flames beneath the halo of a crown, the light regarding wherever their gazes fall. In the other, they brandish longswords, the blades’ tip pointed to the floor. As above, so below.

Evergreen flora and oil paintings decorate the walls. No painting is like the last, but the one that draws my attention stands above the stairs. Painted between two pillars is crowded street scene, where women crowd around a glossy white Frisian horse. It’s snout points downwards and front legs rear, a faint look of distress in its wide eyes. It pulls tight against the red and gold reigns. The women in the foreground wear incredible finery, each dress different from the last. Pouring from their hands are flurries of petals thrown from the hoards they carry in their skirts. Flower crowns weave through their hair. In the background march armoured guards. Everything about the scene is beautiful and carefully crafted, yet there’s a feeling of unease it evokes, all radiating from the man atop the horse.

Golden hair, glassy skin, ice blue eyes. Drowning in gold armour and a thick red cape, Count Lucio mounts the distressed horse. The late count disregards the women who fawn over him with handfuls of flowers, instead tuning his gaze towards the heavens. Even the mercy of a beautiful painting cannot hide the narcissistic touch. Hell, the painting is narcissistic enough. When was the last time a real woman gushed over the cruel count, if not out of naivety?

“Ah, Portia.” A tall, middle-aged servant dashes to Portia’s side. He adjusts a white hat atop thinning brown hair with a crooked smile and a welcoming bow.

"Afternoon, Chamberlain. How are we doing on time?" Portia asks the bright-eyed man.

The servant, Chamberlain, smiles. "The first course will be served shortly. Her ladyship has yet to descend."

Portia heaves a heavy sigh of relief as he retrieves the pomegranate basket from her hands. "Perfect. Tell the kitchen that our guest has arrived."

With another bow, Chamberlain disappears with the fruit basket down one of the many connecting hallways, his stride strong and purposeful. Portia grabs my arm once more and tugs me along with an excited smile. 

"Come. I'll show you to the dining room. Milady will be there soon."

"Dining room?" I echo. “With the countess?"

Portia gives me a look. "You thought we wouldn’t feed  our guest? When we invited her over in the evening?"

"No, it's just I've only spoken with Countess Nadia once. I wasn't expecting her then, but now that I am," I purse my lips. “The courtesies from and for noblewomen are foreign to me.”

As she guides me down the halls, she quietens to consider my worry. "It is like that at first, and trust me I know. My first few weeks as her servant gave me inescapable anxiety, but when you get to know her more, speak to her more... It gets easier with practice."

“I guess you’re right," I answer with half a mind, examining paintings and plants as we go.

She leads me down the end of the cavernous hallway and to a grand mahogany door. She pushes it open and—

—oh my.

Rich scents rush to meet me, unfamiliar and tantalising, before I even cross the threshold. A long table draped in a silky, white cloth inhabits the middle of the room. Laid heavy over the soft fabric are platters covered in the most careful delicacies. Portia takes the lead and pulls back a chair with a gesture to sit. Still in shock, I sit silently, falling into a plush red cushion. I hear a soft giggle behind me; Portia must find my bewilderment humorous.

I barely smile back before a sprawling painting on the opposite wall calls to me. That feeling of unease returns. Wrapped in a frame of gold is the depiction of a meal shared among animal-headed figures. There's a cow with layered gold necklaces and a strapless green dress, a black bull with a nose ring and huge curling horns in red and gold finery, a white dove in a delicate blue dress in front of a black-clad wolf. There's a cheetah, a pig, a lion, an eagle, all standing in the foreground. There's even a horse-headed figure, but there is no skin to be seen; only bones and a silky black mane. To me, the horse appears as Death, which I find strange to see in such a grand painting.

Though...what sits in the middle catches my attention. Central to the painting with palms held out and an array of grapes and dead animals before it is a tall, white goat. With protruding horns, emotionless red eyes, and a halo of gold rays behind its head, it captivates the attention of the beastly people nestled in finery. I shiver at how strikingly lifelike its eyes are. I wonder what Countess Nadia thinks of it if she's decided to display it in her dining room.

"Welcome, Vivian. I see you're admiring the painting."

As if on queue, I hear the countesses voice behind me, as firm and graceful as I remember. She stands at the head of the table, gaze following mine. Her chair appears like the tangled roots and arms of a tree. It’s set in gold, similar to the rest of the chairs and cutlery and decorations adorning the walls. The countess, as tall as she may be, almost appears like a child as she takes her seat.

Today she has her wavy, plum-coloured hair a half-up style, with pearls weaving in and out of sight like silver fish in a pond of wine. There is a modest crown of golden branches holding glistening emeralds above her head. Hugging her elegant figure is a simple purple dress with a low neckline and impossibly long sleeves with slits along the inner arm. Cherry-red lips curl into a placid smile as our eyes meet.

"Do you like it? The painting?" she asks.

I consider lying, telling her I would die to have it for myself, but it seems wrong. “It's uniquely…unsettling.”

"Such honesty. Good to see that you have a backbone." She makes a face as she regards the painting once more. "I must confess that I do not like it either."

"Then why does it remain?" I ask quietly. 

As the countess considers my question, two servants appear. They carry what I assume is the first course of the meal, the starter. In a bowl covered in faint blue floral designs is a potato leak stew. After presenting my cutlery and offering me wine, I thank the servant, who bows with a smile and retreats down the hall. I carefully bring a spoonful. Unsurprisingly, the simplest stew tastes unlike anything I’ve every had.

"Why does it remain? Sentimental value, I suppose. It was one of my husband's favourites," the countess answers simply.

It’s strange to suddenly hear of the count and observe him in paintings after three long years. It irrupts a sudden sense of familiarity as I look back to the goat. Its eyes are so vivid that I can almost feel them returning my gaze.

"A beautiful red..." I murmur aloud. When Nadia’s gaze follows mine once more to land on a pair of beady red eyes, I can't decide if the emotion in her eyes is longing or disgust.

"Ah, yes. It is a beautiful red." When she looks back, that emotion is gone. "The one in the middle is Lucio—or so it's supposed to be. Providing for the people as he saw himself. If anything he certainly knew how to entertain."

The second I finish my soup, it’s whisked away to be replaced by the second course: roasted mushrooms and onion in a drizzle of gravy. Like the previous dish, the portioning is small to allow the array of food. The plate its presented on depicts the same blue patterns.

Nadia continues. "I know how fondly the people of this city remember the Count's Masquerade. Our annual revelry in honour of my husband's birthday...a delight to all of Vesuvia. Did you ever attend?"

I hum in thought. “I...don't recall attending, no.”

“A pity," the countess offers. Her eyes turn dark with remembrance. "Nevertheless, it is a memory now twinged with bitterness... After Lucio was murdered at the last Masquerade."

I nearly choke at how strong her words come and how little sadness I hear in them. Mercifully, I catch myself, swallowing my mouthful with ease.

The countess shakes her head. "Such a terrible shock to the guests. Such a vicious injustice upon this house, to slaughter the host while he celebrates, sharing his joy and properties with open doors."

The Count’s murder is full of holes, muddied by wild rumours and unanswered questions. But the end is always the same: the Count retired to his chambers, and by midnight, he and his chamber were engulfed in flames. The culprit was allegedly captured on the spot, but before he could be brought to justice...he escapes. Vanished into the night.

Since the masquerade, guests to the Palace have been few indeed. I wonder how long after the last visitor I’ve come. Once, all those years ago, the streets leading to the palace were bustling with life and the gates were indefinitely opening, inviting endless nights of party and celebration for the littlest of things. You could explore the streets of Vesuvia at night without rotations of guards doubting your every move. Count Lucio was the talk of the town, a prayer on everyone's lips. Now, everyone is scared to speak his name.

"A tragic story. But you’re grace…" I tilt my head to the side, “what does any of this have to do with me?"

"The Masquerade is precisely why I called you here. This year, I intend to revive and renew its reputation."

Don't stare, don't stare.

But I still do, forgetting the bite of mushroom that I hold inches from my mouth. Portia, who stands behind Countess Nadia, shares my shock. So does every other servant in the room. Three years later, she wants to throw a Masquerade despite its tarnished image? And, most bewildering of all, I have a part to play?

The countess smiles. "The festivities in Lucio's honour will be more fantastical than ever. Music, entertainment, food, no expenses or invites needed to attend so that all of Vesuvia can celebrate. If not for my husband, then just for themselves. There is but one loose end in need of tying."

"And that is...?"

"Lucio's murderer still roams free. To this day he has not met the justice he deserves for committing such a terrible crime.” 

She manages to remain almost entirely indifferent. All that betrays her is a slight quiver in her lip—anger. She’s angry its taken this long to let Lucio rest easy. Her memory of the count may differ, it seems. There are few people who would willingly bring him justice. But, in this moment, that doesn’t bother me. Instead, the wanted posters swim in my head, worn and muddied in time, some still found deep within the streets. The name had escaped me for the longest time, but now it couldn’t be more memorable.

My stomach twists in unease. Doctor Julian Devorak, the man who broke into my home, who I spoke to only last night and saw wandering the markets today. I curse myself for overlooking the familiarity of his name and how easily it came to me.

The countess continues, oblivious to my horror. "Doctor Julian Devorak, my husbands former physician, confessed to the crime when we caught him. But somehow he slipped through my grasp. All that is left is his sentence."

"I've heard a lot of talk about him," I say slowly, "but never an inkling of his sentence. What shall it be, if...you don't mind me asking, my lady."

She raises a brow. "His sentence? Death by hanging, of course."

No more than a second later, a terrible crash echoes through the room. We both turn to see Portia, her face white and stricken with something resembling horror. At her feet are the shards of fine china and ruined deserts. Her wide eyes jump between the two of us. I give her a sympathetic smile that I hope says, it's okay, because I don't blame her.

There's a sick feeling churning in my stomach in response to Countess Nadia's words that Portia must feel. Half of it comes from my fresh and unrealised encounter with Doctor, and the other half comes from his sentence. Hanging… There hasn’t been a hanging in Vesuvia for a long time. The age of public death sentences has been on a come down in many parts of the world. Though merciful, the reasoning is somewhat cruel: people have realised that suffering is more rewarding than a quick death.

But he's a criminal, I remind myself. He killed the count. He broke into your home like the crazed lunatic he is. Think of it as a kinder punishment.

“Portia?" The countess doesn't sound mad, instead concerned.

"F-forgive me, milady," she stammers. "Caught me off guard, is all."

The countess sighs. "You are forgiven."

The few present servants rush to Portia’s aid, stepping away the shattered mess with wind-sprint speed. I watch Portia a moment longer, intrigued by the way her eyes search the floor. She isn’t looking for mess, no… I think she might cry.

I’m quickly distracted by two more servants appearing from the hallway, each carrying dishes Portia had just dropped. They take our empty plates and dirtied cutlery in silence. Before me is an array of bite sized pastries, each decorated in berries, caramelised banana, and a dusting of powdered sugar.

"As I was about to say…” Nadia graciously picks at a pastry with delicate fingers, somehow taking a bite so graceful and perfect that I’m conscious to take my own. “This is where you come in, Vivian. Doctor Devorak has been very elusive. But you have quite the reputation. Rumour has it that you have surpassed even your master, Asra."

Again, I manage not to falter despite the absolute shock. What rumour? Who told her this?

I purse my lips. "I appreciate you coming to find me, my lady. Really, out of all those capable, it bewilders me to know you wanted to find me. But…I’m unsure you have heard right."

She smiles. "Oh, but I did. From some very trusted sources, who have heard from Asra himself that you are a unique specimen. But it will still come down to whether you believe you live up to that standard—which I will let you decide once I have provided you with more detail."

I nod. “I will try, if that pleases you, but I must ask you not to have high hopes.”

"No need." The countess laughs lightly with a shake of her head. "I have enough trust in myself that you are what people say. I’ll let you in on a little secret: I myself have a connection to magic, though not as palpable as yours. Glimpses of the future come to me in dreams. They tell me you are the one who will find Doctor Devorak."

"A clairvoyant, huh?” I lean back, brows raised in disbelief. “Fascinating. I’ve never met someone one before. And don't mind me asking, but what of the doctor if we find him?

“When we find him, we will bring him before the people so that all may see his long-awaited punishment. And so, to commence the festivities, the doctor will die on the gallows for his terrible crime. And once you have brung me my prize, I will reward you with any amount of riches that you desire.”

Riches. Though I pride myself on my humble beginnings and willingness to help anyone in need, I’m only human. Not just any riches, but those I desire. The idea amazes me. I could afford enough food to not worry about the next few weeks, I could afford finery and real jewels, I could even buy a bigger shop for Asra and I, where we have our own spaces, if she’s generous enough. While I hate to be swayed by money, the weight it could lift of my shoulders is too appealing.

The countess rises to her feet. On instinct, I follow suit. When I really take in the magnificence of her, the spectacular dress of flowing material and jewels that must have cost handfuls, I realise how dressed down I must seem, despite wearing the nicest clothes I own.

"Now that I have told you all you need to know, would you like to work alongside me?" she asks.

"Of course." I bow my head. "Anything to finally put you and the rest of Vesuvia at peace."

"Good. Portia?"

Portia jumps at her name. "Yes, milady?”

"Show Vivian to her guest quarters. I imagine she has much to think over before the night is out."

"Right away, milady."

Portia gently takes my elbow and guides me around the chairs, and with a humble bow, whisks me through the doorway. She is quiet as she ushers me through the maze of halls, but it isn't the same silence we shared when walking to the palace. It’s an uncomfortable, heavy silence. For a minute, I endure it, feeling that maybe this has nothing to do with the dining room and she has nothing to say. Despite telling myself, I can't fight the urge to speak.

"Call me crazy, but...maybe the punishment is extreme," I say softly. "There are plenty of convicted murderers in the world, but lots of them aren't sentenced to...death. Just because Count Lucio was well known shouldn't change the Doctors sentence—the count is still as human as anybody I know." Pursing my lips, I add, “Never mind, maybe it was just jarring to hear."

Portia shakes her head. "No, no, I agree. ...Death sounds a tad extreme, but I would never tall m'lady so."

I nod.

We pass a large staircase, veiled in shadows. A draft rushes from above, prickling my skin like a ghostly caress. It almost feels heavy, carrying an ashen smell. Curled up on the bottom stairs are two white, lanky dogs. Around their necks are thick, gold collars. Beady red eyes following us along. Silently, they rise. I stop walking, staring back and gently holding out my hand. The bigger one walks forward, sniffing me. The other follows. Their huffing breathes tickle my skin and eventually, their tails raise and wag.

"Well, I'll never," Portia breathes, eyes curious. "They never take kindly to strangers. It's how they were trained, but...I've never seen them act kindly."

Their slim snouts brush up my sides as the white dogs investigate me further. Satisfied, they draw back, looking at me expectantly. I almost reach out to pet them again, but something in their eyes catches me off guard. Suddenly it’s unsettling. I take a careful step back, giving them plenty of room. They trot proudly back to their spot. 

"They're very strange things, aren't they?” I wonder aloud.

"I agree... Oh! No wonder they're like this, they haven't had their chamomile cakes." She looks between the two dogs, who stay as still as statues. "Wait here, Vivian. And it's probably best to keep your distance. I'll be right back with those cakes."

"Of course."

Portia drags back a panel in the wall and disappears through a servant tunnel. It shuts behind her with a heavy thunk and I'm left alone in the halls with the dogs. There's a nudge at my side as one of the dogs sniff my side again. When I look down, it pulls away and stares again.

There's another nudge at my other side—the smaller one taking in huffing samples of my sent. I whirl around to watch it mirror the bigger one's actions. It sits back on its haunches, giving me a look of innocence. I laugh. Cheeky. But as I share its jovial gaze, that unsettling sensation returns, rippling beneath my skin like a wave of fever.

"A guest?"

I step back from the dogs, looking around the hall expecting to see a servant or another visitor. Anyone, really, but I’m still alone.

"Intriguing..."

The voice doesn’t come from down here, no. I follow the dog's gaze to the top of the stairs, where the voice spoke. No one is to be seen, shrouded by the gloom atop the staircase. I jump when I feel yanking at the hem of my skirt; the dogs have taken a mouthful of white linen into their jaws. Their grip is and stubbornly strong.

"Hey, drop it," I warn.

They don't comply, pulling me towards, only letting me go when we've reached the top. I’m met with a hallway identical to the one below, but the intricate chandeliers are unlit. There's an eerie aura in the air, that both pulls me in and begs for me to leave. The smell of ash is overwhelming. I cough, feeling my throat and lungs sting. With one hand over my nose and mouth, I summon a ball of light in my other. I’m alone again. The dogs have disappeared. 

There is a grand door ahead, partway open. Inside is a deeper darkness that my light cannot pierce. I should go back. Portia could be arriving at any moment with those cakes. But that door...

Portia can wait.

The magic in my hand flutters to a glow as I step into the dark. I frown, focusing my mind on the small ball of light. No matter how hard I try, it remains dim, as if something unseen is snuffing out my magic. 

Despite the coldness of the corridor outside, the room I step into is warm. Uncomfortably warm. The air, however, is strangely thick and tastes strongly of pepper. Nevermind that though...

Once my eyes have adjusted to the dim light, I take in the bedroom before me. A heavily canopied bed stretches midway across the room, the sheets neatly done up. I step further into the threshold, passing a suit of extravagant, gold armour. A wooden writing desk sits to my left. Its surface is scattered with neat piles of paper and books and a white feather pen.

Everything looks lived in. Well, if not for the ash.

The curtains, bedspread, and canopy sheets are in shreds, charred and limp. Everything has been touched by fire. Horror coils in my gut. This is the infamous room, the quarters of Count Lucio that set the scene for his demise on the night of his birthday. 

A shiver chases down my spine. I shouldn't be in here, but there’s morbid curiosity the accompanies the unease. Who else can say that they've witnessed this mess?

My attention is caught by a portrait on the wall, twice my height. For the third time this evening, I examine a painting of Count Lucio. Either this portrait is old or he looked younger than I remember because the gleam captured in his eyes and the youthful face takes me by surprise. Or perhaps the artist was catering to his vanity. The count is painted before a mountain range, with one silver-booted foot on a rock. He's wearing cream-coloured pants and a scarlet suit jacket threaded with gold designs. Hanging from his broad, straight shoulders is a long fur coat lined with a red matching his jacket. I lean closer—

"Go on. Touch it."

My heart skips to my throat and I draw back, guilty. I’ve been caught…but by who? I’m still alone in this sad, empty room. From my guilt sprouts fear. I almost call out to the voice when a miasma of thick, scorching air shoves my hand against the portrait. The skin on my wrist burns and I cry out in alarm. A snickering fills my ears as a haze settles over my mind.

"Nothing like the real thing, seeing...unable to feel. Such sweet torture."

My magic reacts to the invisible threat, the light seeping from between my palm and the canvas and down my hand. With a burst of force, the light explodes outwards, pushing the mass away and seeping into my tattoos. The strange sensation subsides in kind, the voice growing fainter, even wistful.

"Ahh...interesting," the disembodied voice murmurs. “There, in your energy… Ohh, it’s him. Could you be…?”

I subconsciously take a step backwards, face horror-stricken. Either someone finds it funny to play with me like this, or this room is...alive. My magic buzzes in reaction to something unholy hiding in the shadows. Soft material brushes against my legs and I fall through the folds of dust-covered fabric covering the bed. Great plumes of dust and ash billow through the air as my back hits the duvet of Count Lucio’s bed. I lay where he once did, where he was incinerated. Ash stings my eyes, fills my nose and mouth with a terrible taste. A sick feeling turns my stomach and I clamp a hand over my in my struggle to escape the bed. This was a mistake.

"Going so soon?" the voice coos. "You're no fun."

"What are you? Why are you talking to me?" I demand, eyes darting between the shadows. "What do you want?"

"What do I want? What do I want?"

The echo of my question ends in a deathly snarl. I freeze, feeling the sensation of something reaching for my back. Abruptly, the temperature drops and the feeling disappears. I let out a breath I never knew I was holding. The air from my lips turning to mist. I dare not look as something moves.

"Chains of gold, but no neck. Beautiful, beautiful furs, but no back. No perfect face, no perfect body. I have nothing I want."

My breathing is no longer mist in the air. My skin is no longer chilled by the dropping temperature. All at once, the room feels normal. When there is nothing but silence as the voice fades, I aim for the door. Breaking into a run, I dash down the hall, my mind racing. Could that have been... No. The portraits lining the wall watch me run with cold, aristocratic stares.

"Come back... Come back..."

Don't listen, the voice in my head reasons. And I shouldn't, but against all good sense, I still look back.

I only see it for a moment; a silhouette, stark against a wall of high windows frosted with smoke. Claws, horns, and hoofs like onyx—that's what I see first. Second comes the white face of a goat staring back at me, glowing red eyes fixed gleefully on mine.

Then I blink.

It’s gone.

But I don't stop. If anything, my legs move faster. By the time I've stumbled down the stairs, Portia is back, confusion on her face at my sudden appearance.

"There you are!"

She stares at me, taking in the dishevelment of my appearance: ash covering me from head to toe, the mess my hair has become. I wonder how white my face is.

Her eyebrows lower. "What...why are you covered in ash? Oh, what did those naughty dogs do to you?"

"Oh, nothing,” I lie breathlessly. “They wanted to play a game of chase and I couldn't help it. But we had a little... accident."

"Those two." She shakes her head. "They won't cease to confuse me. They must really like you. Would you mind if I fixed you up a tad?"

I sigh. "Please."

She gestures for me to sit on the stairs. After helping me to brush the dust from my clothes, she takes a seat behind me and takes my hair in her hands. With a motherly touch, she undoes the mess my braid has become, gently combing her fingers through the tangles. 

"You have such lovely hair," she murmurs. "And may I ask why your tattoos are glowing?”

The dainty, identical patterns stretching from my elbow to my fingertips, otherwise inked in black, glow a soft white. 

I look down at my left hand. Inked on it are black and white snakes that intertwine, weaving around my wrist and through my fingers. Instead of the plain colours they normally are, they glow a soft white. Similarly, the rest glow. The sun on my sternum, the snake and moon phases down my spine, the stretch of stars along my collarbone… I can feel each line on my body radiate a comfortable heat.

"Oh, I don't really know,” I answer. “There’s special ink, no special designs. Asra thinks that maybe it's because my magic is so restless that it’s constantly in search of an outlet."

“Fascinating.” Portia pulls my hair into a fresh braid. "I hear a lot of whispers that you are not what you seem. What the countess says about you surpassing even your own master is what I've heard myself. But what you said to m’lady…"

"You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"Well...I don't know."

She pauses. "What do you mean?"

"I grew up unable to learn magic," I say after a moment. "My parents restricted a lot of my life, and even mentioning magic was punishable. I ran away from home and spent a few hard years on my own. Eventually, Asra found me and offered to take me in. After a year he told me he sensed something budding, but I didn’t believe him. It felt too late in life to connect with magic. Until one night, I was running an errand late in the evening for Asra with my coin push stupidly on display, and a thief noticed.”

"...What happened?"

I purse my lips. Only Asra has ever known this—not that I’ve had other friends to tell. To repeat it to Portia now, after so long, feels strange. 

"Looking at me, he of course thought that I was an easy target. So he pulled me into an alley and drew a knife on me and threatened to take my life if I didn't comply. I was so frightened, so still and in shock that I didn't give the money. Eventually, he tired of me and raised the knife to swing. Then out of nowhere, this burst of magic shot from me as I tried shielding myself. It hit him square in the chest. His body went flying."

"What happened to him?"

"I have no idea. I just hope I didn't kill him."

With a twist of a hairband, Portia finishes the braid and gives my shoulders a squeeze. "You did what you had to do. Now come along. I think you need a little rest."

Almost forgetting what I saw upstairs, I nod and smile, letting her take my hand and lead me to my room. Thankfully, it isn't far. We take one last corner and approach another door that is as grand as the rest. She pushes it open to reveal a room so big I wonder if I could fit the shop inside.

Portia grins. "Here we are. This will be your quarters, Vivian."

"...Oh my.” Gilded walls, a huge bed, velvet pillows and couches… “This is amazing.”

"You may put your things wherever you like. Breakfast is at sunrise, and don't worry about oversleeping. I will be here to wake you."

Overwhelmed, I pull Portia into a tight hug, which takes her by surprise. Though, she doesn't hesitate to wrap her arms back around me with a squeeze. She smells of spring air, with the sweet hint of cherry blossoms.

"Thank you," I whisper. "And if you happen to see Countess Nadia again before tomorrow, tell her I won't fail her."

"Of course, and you're most welcome." She pulls back. "Now sleep well. Your job starts tomorrow."

Gently she closes to door. I drop my bag on the bed and change into a silk slip. Sliding underneath the thick covers, I feel my fatigue hit me like a wave. But I do not sleep for a long time.

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

[fenicenera83]

✶☽ Here we are with my new headcanons for Marius.

[I arrive a little late for Marius's Mondays and I'm sorry! But as promised here we are.]

From Marius' rooms in the castle there always came a delicate scent of roses. This is because Marius always kept a bunch on his desk. Red, shiny, velvety and full of perfume. It wasn't a gesture of vanity, and really not even of simple admiration for something so beautiful. No, for Marius, roses were an indissoluble bond with his Rome. With a mortal past, which had made him a happy man. Roses and their petals, when they covered Rome on events. Those days when his father took him by the hand and led him to discover the Eternal City. The rose petals in the public baths, where Marius loved to rest, or spend time with his brothers. Talking, joking about life, about the future. Rose petals, were in his sisters hair, distilled on his stepmother's neck. When she held him in her arms as a child, Marius remembered with nostalgia, he buried his nose in the crook of her neck, and that perfume enveloped him, leaving only sweetness and love. Roses are for Marius like walking again beside those he has loved and lost. That perfume is a litany of love, a poem of joy.

When Marius was a child, his father often took him with him, taught him names, laws, illustrious people, honor, family. Marius loved all this and fathered him immensely. While he hated that those walks sometimes brought them in front of slave sellers. Many times Marius's child's eyes had rested on them, and he had seen in them a reflection of himself. Very light hair, and eyes of an impossible blue. Marius observed, and brooded, small as he was, doubt was already growing inside him, the awareness of not being 'whole' in the eyes of most. He looked at his father and saw golden hair, and clear eyes, but they weren't like his. He didn't have that gold or that sky. He had the ocean and the gentle warmth of a candle burning at night. He wasn't like his father. He was like his mother. His father noticed the change in little Marius. Then he took him in his arms, lifted him up and smiled at him. And Marius could only laugh in turn. Then his father held him and stroked his hair and whispered to him: "Luceat lux vestra." (Let your light shine)

Marius was always ecstatic when he was surrounded by books. Now after millennia he had managed to develop an external self-control, but inside he was always a smiling child. But whether as a mortal man or as a young vampire, Marius had always been enthusiastic about knowledge. As a young boy, he ran from side to side, searching and collecting scrolls, with stories, research, poems, anything that could set his intellect in motion. And he spent hours, unable to tear himself away from the wonder of words written by another human being, yet so close to him, to his mind and to his heart. As a man he had become more selective, even more careful. Since he loved all knowledge, he didn't preclude anything, but he organized what to devote his interest to him first, then proceeding to study the rest. As a young vampire, he'd grown ravenous. Everything he set his eyes on, he wanted to learn, own, understand and experience. Being a vampire granted him this with extreme ease. So he often found himself asleep, among the scrolls, exhausted but happy, full of perspectives and ideas. He voracious of all that knowledge, bewitched by the courage and clarity with which the human mind can expand and indulge. To ourselves and to others. The smell of the parchments first, and then of the books, were a balm for his fatigue or for his disappointment. Those clean and black words on the paper, that familiar and deep smell, made him happy.

Thanks for reading =)

[resident-cake-anon]

omg mogiberi is doing custom armored teddies now??? i did a mock up of my golden petals as their teddies but never thought they might have a chance of being real im !!!

if they end up reopening those commissions i’ll have to get one of catherine aaa better start saving up

I made two bad financial decisions

[ozarkthedog]

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐨𝐧𝐞

summary: Chris returns homes after the Lightyear premiere and ruins you aka fucks you within an inch of your life.

warnings: filthy, nasty smut. fingering multiple holes. dirty talk. squirting. light anal play. bicep choking. rough sex. slight fisting threat. Chris Evans looking like this ☝️ 

word count: 2193

author’s note: there is no reason for this other than to spread filth. hope you enjoy the wickedness! 💙 thanks to @ghotifishreads​ for the button poppin’ thot!

                         ☽ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ♁ 𝐎𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 ☾

 “You know it was bold of you to send me those texts while I was on the carpet.” Chris says as he steps into the kitchen with a somber stare. The dim light from the elegant light that hangs over the island casts a golden hue over the room and makes him look like a villainous god.

You lean against the kitchen island and inwardly cringe at your actions. Normally you don’t use social media but you just had to see him dressed to the nines and in his element. 

Your eyes bugged when you saw what he looked like on the red carpet. Everything about him made you lose your mind but the way his tricolor beard and arms looked tonight? There was no way you could keep those thoughts to yourself.

You could’ve just sent an encouraging, loving text and left it at that. But no, you had to tell him about how handsome and strong and so fucking muscular he looked in that multicolored button-up. You might’ve mentioned something about how veiny and thick his fingers looked. You couldn’t be sure with all the nasty thoughts flying every which way.

“I know. I’m sorry I couldn’t help myself.” You groan in regret and hide your face in your hands as he comes to a stop in front of you. 

Tender, warm hands drag your own away from your face before plush, hungry lips brush over yours. His beard tickles your chin as he deepens the kiss, professing how much he missed you while he was gone. The slight tease of his tongue grazing your lips has you gasping for more just as he pulls away. 

“You mentioned something about my fingers?” He asks, quirking a playful brow. Your heartbeat quickens when his large hands encompass your jaw.

Just as you part your lips to respond Chris squeezes your cheeks with solid pressure and notches your jaw open shoving two thick fingers into your mouth. 

Your face twists in shock and arousal as he glides the soft pads of his fingertips lazily over your tongue. Just like how he does with his cock when you’re on your knees for him. 

“These the fingers you were aching for?” He asks in a mocking tone as you sputter around his appendages when he starts thrusting faster. “Acting like such a slut for?” 

Spit dribbles down your chin and stains the top of your summer dress as he continues the assault on your mouth. 

He slides precariously over your tongue and teases the back of your throat with his ungodly thick fingers. You grab his wrist as your stomach lurches and you gag around his digits. 

His free hand thumbs at the salty tears that run down your cheek. “Such a good girl.” he praises as he slowly pulls his fingers free from your warmth. “Now that one hole has been fucked, let’s try the second one.”

You nod vigorously, wanting nothing more than to feel his fingers deep inside you. 

Chris hitches your leg up and rests it on his hip. He hums contentedly to himself as he gazes down at your obscenely spread and sopping cunt. He had a thing for summer dresses without any panties on. How could you say no to that?  

“Someone really did need her holes filled.” He says with a smirk and laughs when your pussy convulses in response. “Just a greedy little hole that can’t wait a few hours until I’m home to turn into a fuckin’ slut.” He lands a lazy slap on your slick stained pussy that makes your petals bounce. 

You twitch and mewl from the impact but don’t pull away, not that you could since he had you pinned so easily to the countertop. 

“I bet my fingers will slide right in. No resistance at all cause of how fuckin’ wet you are. Absolutely drippin’.”

Chris holds your stare as he draws around the crease of you. Teasing fingertips dip in and out of your drenched folds and trace your swollen clit languidly until he drives you mad. 

Just when you're about to protest does he shove two fat fingers into your cunt.

You grab his expensive shirt as your body bows from the pleasure of finally being filled. A few of the buttons on his shirt pop open as you tug and fist the material showing off the white wife-beater, the golden chain, and the tattoos he kept hidden away.  

He curls his clever fingers and instantly presses down on that little spot behind your clit. Your body goes tight and so fucking rigid with bliss as he hit the bullseye head-on.

Chris presses his forehead against yours, staring you down even though your eyes are closed from the delightful onslaught. “This what you wanted? Hmm? Wanted to cream all over my fingers?”

You claw at his arm and make an inaudible noise, too overwhelmed by being forced directly to the euphoric edge. Sticky sweet arousal lewdly drips down your thighs allowing for another one of his fingers to be pushed into your pulsing core.

The steady rhythm never stops. Constant thrusting and searching and probing every hidden spot you could never find yourself. 

“Is that fillin’ you enough, sweetheart? Or should I add another? Really stretch you out before I get you on my cock.”

Your eyes widen in anxious excitement and your fists clench tighter to his shirt as he grinds the flat of his palm roughly against your clit. 

With the added sensation to your aroused nub and the power he exerted, you had no choice but to come. The spark nestled in your belly gets hotter and deeper with every twist of his wrist.

“Open your eyes, pretty girl.” He softly commands yet barely slows his movements.

Your lids flutter open with a whimper and your eyes land on his salt and peppered jaw. The gray in his beard made your cunt clench every time you looked at it and the sick bastard knew it. 

He grins at how wreaked you’ve become. “Oh baby, you gonna come all over my fingers?” His forehead wrinkles as he nods down at you in a sweet condescending manner. “Come on, make a fuckin’ mess, Sweetheart.” 

Your body shudders with a scream as the light finally ignites and sends you careening off the edge. A wave of creamy, wet arousal shoots from your core and splashes against Chris’s black trousers indefinitely staining them with your essence.

Chris growls at the sight and keeps fucking you with his white, cum drenched fingers until the overstimulation has you whimpering and pushing at his chest. His free hand cups the back of your neck and you’re writhing body is instantly still— a stoic reminder of how strong he is.  

“Such a filthy fuckin’ girl. Lookit the mess you made.” He tips his chin down to his sodden slacks where a rather well-endowed bulge is absolutely soaked. 

 You bite your lip in remorse at ruining his pants and start profusely apologizing until he steals your breath with a sordid kiss. 

“Don’t ever apologize for bein’ my filthy little slut.” His eyes are a daunting dark blue but you don’t shy away. 

Instead, your hands smooth down his svelte torso and glide over the slick stained bulge he kept hidden away. He groans deep in his chest as you slyly rub his cock through the slacks goading him to take control once more.

He spins you so fast the room tilts until you realize he’s bent you over the cool marble countertop. The stone sears your heated skin as you hear rustling and then feel the naked length of him against the soft petals of your cunt. He taps the fat head of his cock on the soddened seam of you, viscid smacks fill the room before he angles his hips and breaches your channel.

Your nails scratch the glazed top as he slowly inches his way into your sweltering core. His girth stretches your walls until there’s no more room and you’re completely full of him. He growls into your ear as he plants himself over your prone form. “God damn, how’re you still so fuckin’ tight?”

Chris grunts as he drags his length from your velvet channel only to push right back in with a hard punch. “I thought my fingers would’ve opened you up and made you nice and loose for me.”

He bottoms out so easily. Both of you groan in pain and ecstasy when his bulbous tip kisses the deepest part of you. He cruelly nudges your cervix with short little thrusts that make your walls swirl and milk his length regardless of the enthralling torture.

Chris saws into the seam of you with such precision. Gliding over your most sensitive spots with his thick girth and dexterity your lower half swirls with turbulent rapture. 

“Maybe next time I’ll try to fit my fist in your cunt.” He threatens weakly but the vile image tears through your brain and runs down your spine stinging every nerve in your body as your orgasm takes hold.

Your core locks and vibrates around his cock as the ramp-up to the most profound orgasm starts but then all movement ceases.   

With a feral growl, Chris tugs you off the marble with a rough hand to the back of your neck. He weaves an arm around your neck and sweetly diminishes your blood flow by pressing his massive bicep against your carotid artery.

“Is that your cunt being greedy again or is my little slut thinkin’ she can come whenever she wants?”

Your fingers dig into his veiny forearms as he slots you against his bulky, muscular chest with nowhere to go. He’s enormous. Impenetrable. You feel so small and powerless and yet, your cunt flows like a wild river of slick.

“You come when I think this cunt has had enough, you got it?” He grunts hotly into your ear. 

A sharp, assertive thrust hits your cervix and you make a garbled choking sound. The slight pain slowly turns to pleasure with every deep, unending thrust. He teases and tortures your body like he loves you. He loosens his grip on your neck from time to time so you don’t pass out only to lock you tight in his hold once again.     

He forcefully drags you back onto his cock making you meet each and every heavy thrust. His v-shaped pelvis slaps against your ass on every powerful drive making your body bounce and quiver on impact.

There was nothing sweet about the way he was taking you apart. He was giving you everything and you just had to take it. 

Another grueling wave of pleasure takes root in your belly and you start struggling fruitlessly under his bicep. You try begging but it only comes out in a mix of nonsense.

 “Does my little hole need to come?” Chris mocks as he slows his thrusts to an idle pace.

You try nodding until Chris removes his bicep but keeps you slotted against him with an arm around your clavicle. You breathe in mouthfuls of gracious air until your raspy voice pleads with him to let you come.

Chris clicks his tongue against his teeth in contemplation. “I don’t know. There is one more hole to try…” A dollop of spit lands on the rump of your ass.

You curse when you feel his spit drip down the rim of your ass and mix with your arousal. He fucks his spit into your cunt and eagerly watches your pussy convulse when he rubs his thumb over your wet, fluttering rosebud. 

Your body goes limp under his touch when he presses his thumb into the tight rim and violates the final hole. “There we go. That’s better, huh? Got all your holes filled like a greedy, little slut should.”

Fire swells in your belly as Chris’s thrusts pick up speed and spread you open even more for him. You feel impossibly full as his thumb nestles deeper in your ass with every shove of his hips. 

Ragged, anxious mewls fall from your lips as your impending orgasm steadily grows. The fire burns so hotly that you’re desperate to let it consume you.

“Go on, Sweetheart. Come for me.”

Chris’s cock swells when your buttery core swirls and milks his length as you shout your release into the room. Your orgasm drips down his thick length and stains his ballsack with creamy liquid as he chases his own high. His abs constrict and he slams into your sweltering cunt with a ravenous growl one final time.

Your spent bodies lie over the kitchen island for what seems like ages until Chris eases himself from your core with a hiss. He helps you stand on two solid feet and then he gathers you in his arms.

“I did appreciate the spicy texts despite the place and time.” He muses and kisses the soft junction of your neck that always makes you purr.

“They weren’t even that dirty,” you quip with a smile. “I can only imagine what the rest of the interweb had to say about that look.”

raise your hand if you want to be treated like this 🙌

[eartheatr]

⛧Draw New Love

4𝔱𝔥 ♐︎

☽ 𝔳/𝔠 10:24 𝔭𝔪

Color of the Day : Green

Incense of the Day : Nutmeg

❁

Today is the Romanian holiday of Dragobete. In addition to being considered the first day of spring and a day for honoring love and lovers, Dragobete is also a magical day for gathering plants for love magic as well as collecting snow to be melted and used in potions.

Today, obtain one red rose. Scatter its petals across a small baking sheet lined with parchment and bake for ten minutes at 275°F.

Once the petals are cool, place them in a bowl pet and empower them in sunlight for a minute or two. If there's no sunlight available, you can just envision them being filled with golden white light.

Bundle the petals, along with a garnet, into a piece of red flannel. Tie it closed with ribbon or twine. Hold the charm to your heart and conjure up the ecstatic feeling of falling in love.

Place the charm on your altar or sleep with it under your pillow until your new love has appeared

❁

[resident-cake-anon]

moment of solitude

and when you say you want it all. i know you want it all. baby, take it all from me.

taglist! dm for removal or addition :)

@justrandomselfships @unspeaketh @punkcollar @bioexorcizm

moots add me to your taglists immediately!

rbs greatly appreciated!

[resident-cake-anon]

you’ve already drawn them before so don’t feel pressured to draw them again if the reqs pile up!

Moots only!

Please yall send me refs of your S/Is (and ofc preference what slefship of yours you want me to draw)! I wanna draw sth small for all of you <3